


Lore

by SmutWithPlot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Biracial Jesse McCree, Bisexual Jesse McCree, Bisexual Male Character, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Consensual Kink, F/F, F/M, Foreign Language, Gay Male Character, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Racism, Latino Jesse McCree, M/M, Multi, Pink Hanzo, Pre-Recall, Sex Worker Jesse McCree, SmutWithPlot means there will be smut in your plot, Trans Male Character, Young Jesse McCree, alternating first person POV, ask me about my gay agenda, dark headcanons, lots of flashbacks, trans!McCree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: Another McHanzo fic from that insufferable bastard, SmutWithPlot. Get ready for a long one, full of angst and smut and espionage! We're going deep lore with this one, hang on to your hats.





	1. Angels

**Author's Note:**

> HI GUYS. I know, I already have Jack Rabbit and Coyote and By Request and the rest to do, but this one is one that's been rattling around in my head for an actual year or so. I have a playlist for #McHanzo that I use to write, and this monstrosity has been slowly percolating. I hope you folks like it. If nothing else, I'll be happy to have birthed the beast. Some minor details have been tweaked to make it canon-compliant with Ashe. Also: although I speak a decent amount of Spanish, I'm Puerto Rican and not chicano, and my vocabulary and diction might not be the best. Extra more so on the Japanese. Do not bother correcting my grammar -- it's only for flavor text, and I'm going to purposefully keep it simple or else translate, so please don't get hung up on it. Love you, but I do this for fun and for free. Be grateful. Use Google translate like I do.

_The arena is empty, except for one man still driving and striving as fast as he can. The sun has gone down and the moon has come up, and long ago somebody left with the cup... thinking of someone for whom he still burns..._ "The Distance" by CAKE

//

Name's McCree. Ask me again, I'll tell you the same. For a long time I didn't think my life was gonna be anything worth sharing, and really, a lot of it is better left forgotten. Recently, that's come to change, and I suppose I better start getting some of this down before I can't anymore. I won't bore you much about my childhood. I was a shit kicker kid born as an unpleasant surprise to two people who only hardly liked each other, and things weren't exactly what you would call pleasant or particularly prosperous. I was doing a paper route at six in 105 degree New Mexico summers to help make ends meet, and when my Pa got me a pellet shooter at 12, turned out I had a knack for the thing. I started hunting cats slinking about in the neighborhood and got clever. Rattlers turned out to be mighty tasty, and I even took down a javelina once. Not that I recommend you ever eat one of those things, but the damn thing was charging me and I was the better shot.

Which means that as soon as I was old enough to work, I was working. I wouldn't say I was stupid, but a lot of my cleverness had to do with fixing mechanics more than figuring out numbers and remembering dates. No one has ever said I was a particularly eloquent speaker, and to be frank, some people would wish I just shut up, so I oblige them for the most part. I had no disillusions that I was going to be a doctor or anything of that sort, and I wasn't about to join the military -- out where I'm from, the options were Army or Air Force anyhow, and I wasn't smart enough for the one, or particularly interested in getting shot at, although I daresay I wouldn't have made it through boot camp anyhow. By the time I was looking at getting my own ride, I had got it in my head that perhaps going into... Alternative income was the most efficient way to provide for my family, and get me out of the shit hole I'd grown up in, a long-dead mining town called Silver City. By 15, I was skipping school more than I attended, hanging out with the type of people you might call 'unsavory', and by 16 I had saved up for, and repaired, my very own bike. By 17, I was running guns, drugs, medical supplies and other such sundries from Los Angeles and San Francisco to Texas and Florida, and there was talks of me going to Mexico on a semi-regular basis.

I know that sounds stupid, but after the Omnic Crisis, we really didn't have a whole lot of options down there.

As was bound to happen, we got caught. I was fully prepared to take my stripes, earn some jail time, get a name for myself. Loyalty meant a lot to the Deadlock Gang, and I was eager to prove I was willing to take my licks. Even if they took us down, I'm pretty sure I killed a couple of theirs, and when they took me in and stole my gun, I still fought, pulling out a blade I had hidden in my boot and slicing up their Boss real bad. He took a lot of punishment, though. Gave some back, too. Turns out that he'd been a super soldier of a kind anyhow, one of the head honchos of the still very new Overwatch Project.

I never stood a chance.

//

[Radio check.]

"It's a radio," I drawled into the mic. A snicker on another line, but that was the last. "Y'all about ready to start?"

[Ready when you are, cowboy.] Codename Rita. Merc. Predominantly a cat thief and safecracker, but she's doubling down with some good old fashioned espionage. I've worked with her a few times before. Bedded her once or twice, too.

[Are you sure this line is secure?] My panicky handler. And talent scout. I call him Fidgets in private, but he goes by Montgomery officially.

"Secure as it's gonna get with four people on it," I answered. "What do you got?"

[The intel is fairly good, but I'm a little worried about security.] Hacker. Handle is Mercury. Kind of reminds me of one of those rabbits that might have spent too long in Moira's lab. I'm pretty sure something bad happened to him, but I can't put my finger on what it is about him that's so off, and I sure as hell ain't in the position to ask. [I could hack it, but it's a live rotating sequence -- it needs to be actively hacked. I'd rather be able to monitor it. Which I can do, but...]

"But?" I asked, rubbing my eyes. Too well trained to be difficult, is what I mean.

[But I don't feel safe watching cams _and_  security _and_  the news _and_  trying to crack this thing. It's gonna be a handful by itself. I hate to say it, but...]

[Mark, please.] Monty has less patience than I do.

[...I almost think we need another guy. A spotter.]

I blink. And before I can answer, Rita bites in. [Are you fucking serious?]

[Look, there's been an upgrade in security! I mean, maybe we're not the only team after this score, could be they're anticipating trouble and added bodies. Which, I mean, would be _fine_ , but even as good as you and McCree are, you can't put out a fire from inside the house. I would rather we have someone on the roof across the way to watch the exterior.]

"Right in god damn broad daylight," I growled.

[So get someone sneaky! A ninja or something.]

[Keep in mind also that this will cut into shares,] Montgomery warned.

[Yeah, I kind of _like_  the four-way split we got going, be fair.]

[Fine. Be cheap. But you let me know how much you enjoy spending that quarter share when we get made.]

I sighed... A hand squeezing my neck. This heist was becoming a nightmare. Every time we have a team meeting, something else is gone wrong. Makes me wonder if maybe it's too much trouble and we should back off. "How about we shop around? Monty, put out some feelers, see if there's anyone in the area." A fifth share was still a good payout, Rita was just being greedy. Not that I blamed her, but I'd learned the hard way it was better to be safe than greedy. "Reconvene in..." I checked my watch. "39 hours."

[Are you kidding me?! That's 4am!]

"Glad you can count, Rita. Good night." I killed her signal, and Mercury's too. "Well, I think that went better than expected."

[I think she was getting nervous, too,] Monty agreed, thoughtful. [She didn't put up much of a fight.]

"Considering it's me and her about to get shot at, I think she likes having a bird in the air. Didn't expect this damn system to be so tough to crack, though." Nice thing about radio conferences was no one had to know you were sitting around buck naked in a shitty motel room with what barely passed for AC, sweating like a pig. For all they know, you were sitting on a lordly throne somewhere, barking out orders in a five piece designer suit by the pool. I had hand rolled cigarettes for right now, and a serape over a decade old. I lit up a new smoke, promising myself I'd get a pack of _real_  cigarettes when this was done. And maybe a box of cigars, too. Might even go to Cuba to pick some up real good ones cheap. And a _señorita_ , too.

[Well... You said you wanted people with more paranoia than gold lust. So I am trying to accommodate you.] Monty was being awful obliging, really. More so than I would expect of him.

"And I appreciate that," I told him, taking a drag. Could be wrapped a little tighter. "See who's in town, get me names."

[Of course, sir,] he answered. Technically, for this job, I was his boss. I think the fact that I had a gun and a very expensive bounty over my head for using it on so many people awarded me a certain amount of respect. That wasn't the case with everybody, so I didn't push it.

As his line clicked off and the dial tone booped, I breathed out the unfiltered smoke from my lungs, too used to this voluntary toxicity to even cough.

If only I'd known how important that conversation would be in the end.

//

"What's your name, kid?"

I remember that it was cold. Which was a breath of fresh air for a grease monkey, desert coyote like me. I was ready to stall to keep my pride, to be good to my gang, but also part of me just really really _really_  didn't want to leave the nice, sweet, cold room that was supposed to be intimidating and scary.

Just like the man in front of me. He was six foot, maybe six and some change high. Built like those guys you see in the movies, and you know damned well he's gotta be doing steroids. There's no way anyone realistically gets that beast. Not unless you live in the god damn gym. But I knew he didn't, he was _here_. He fought dirty, with hard and mean punches right to the gut to sucker you -- he didn't toy around and beat on you to give you pain, he just wanted you _down_. Trick is, he didn't know that I'd been getting beat on my whole life, and my bones had just gotten harder over time.

Especially my skull.

"Not going to talk?" he asked, as if not invested in the answer. "Maybe you don't speak English. _Como se llama?_ "

I glared up at him. Hardy har. Guy looked mixed between black and Hispanic himself. Maybe he could tell I had some Chicano in me, too. But I noted that he used the respectful ' _usted_ ' instead of ' _tú'_ '. That was interesting.

"No?" he asked, cocking his head to one side, kind of like a bird. "Maybe I shall start calling you ' _Nadie'_." It means 'nobody'. "Or Nate for short. Are you a Nate?"

I remembered chewing on my tongue. Nate was a stupid name, I didn't look anything _like_  a Nate. Mind, I didn't think I looked particularly like my real name either... But the boys had taken to calling me Jesse James, which I kind of liked. I decided then that if he really pushed, that's what I would give him.

"Okay..." He sat down across from me, and dropped the file on the table. My eyes flit to the manila envelope -- who used those anymore? -- and watched him pull out pictures. Surveillance shots, judging by the shit photo quality. Some stills from security cameras, some of those weird paparazzi shots of someone on foot. Various members of the gang, including B.O.B., Ashe, Rodriguez. One of me on my bike, a brother beside me -- looks like Eagle Feather. By my stance, I'd guess we were playing lookout or guard for something. Satellite photos of our party heading down a desert highway, but I couldn't tell you which one from the picture, it all looks the same after a while. And then...

I swallowed hard as he pulled out two shots, close ups of guys in his blue uniform. Overwatch guys. They looked... Pretty dead. And by my gun.

I looked up at him, and for some reason I couldn't explain, I felt kind of like the kid who got caught opening his Christmas presents early. I only did that once, for the record. Learned that it just ruins it for everyone. You know what you got now, the papers have to be retaped, the parents don't get to enjoy your surprise, and the shit you got isn't even the thing you really, really wanted. Nothing is gained here.

I didn't actually enjoy killing people. I mean, sometimes, sure. I get blood lusty and trigger happy, but... I don't actually _enjoy_  killing people. A good brawl or a scrappy hooker can scratch that itch just as easy.

"You did this," he said to me, and I wondered if he had any kids, because those eyes of his had that lowly simmering rage and disgust that my pops could never really pull off, but our local pastor did real well. It made me shrink back a little. His expression was calm, like this was a thing he did every day, but his eyes... His eyes told me that I had done him a personal evil, and he was going to make me pay for it.

He didn't hit to punish, just to put you down. I wondered how cruel he would be when he wanted to just hurt you. If he held his hand while punching people... What method did he prefer?

As I said before, I'm not exactly book smart, but I'm pretty clever, and I got a damn good intuition about some things. Usually anything that involves me getting my ass kicked or potentially killed, and this Reyes cat scared the ever-loving shit out of me. He made me _shiver_  with a fear of god that no one else had really managed to put in me before. And here I was, sitting there handcuffed to the table, no hat, no gun, not even boots (pulling a knife out of one makes them trust your footwear a mite less), and I had the very real feeling this bastard could skin me alive and not bat an eye. He took my mad flailing like he'd had to take down guys eight times as nasty, and I was one of the dirtiest fighters in Deadlock -- Rodriguez said so himself, and he didn't give compliments lightly.

I stared, a dog with his nose smeared in the shit, and I might have squirmed. Fidgeting fingers that wouldn't be noticed under the table, were it not for the chains attached to my wrists that gave me away. He slid the picture closer, right under my face, and I might have winced.

"... _Cuantos anos tiene?"_

I looked up at him -- again, _usted_. Respectful. His eyes were narrowed, shrewd, reading me like a god damn book. But that anger was set aside for a moment, something more like a puzzle stepping in instead. He knew I understood him. That I couldn't get bluff. I opened my mouth, but... A lie wouldn't come.

"... _Diecisiete,"_ I answered, my voice as soft as his.

I watched his eyes flash with something else -- shock, for sure. He had a damn good poker face, his hands didn't move, his posture didn't change, but his eyes... I watched him recover after a moment, leaning back in his chair, a swallow in his throat.

" _Verdad?_ "

I nodded, resigned. "Honest to God truth."

There was a snort, his head tilted to one side, the ghost of a smile on his lips. " _Dios_ \-- you are a smart ass."

I don't know why, but I smiled, a shy thing. "I been told."

"Mmm-hm." He leaned forward, stealing the pictures back. My relief must have been visible, because he slid them under the folder and out of sight. "You got a name, kid?"

"Jesse," I answered, before I could be so honest about that. "Jesse McCree."

He raised his eyebrow at me, and I got the idea he didn't exactly believe it... But I watched him scribble a note. "Jesse or McCree?"

"McCree, _por favor,_ " I answered, knowing I couldn't maintain that bluff so quick.

"Oka... McCree." He slid over another picture. "Here's the deal. You're still a kid. You got priors, I can't help you. But if you don't..."

I looked up at him from the picture -- one of Ashe and B.O.B. standing guard at one of our weapons deals spots. His eyes called to me. His face held that same serene expression -- I had the thought that some people would find him heartless, and insincere. But I've known enough liars to not trust people who smile. He was begging me. Begging me to listen. To take this deal. And... It wasn't the desperation of a man who wanted something out of me. It was pity. Pity for the shit I was going to be stuck in. A lot of us say shit like, 'I just want respect, man,' and then don't actually deliver on it. But this guy had my respect. He was wearing it in the red gash on his cheek that was hiding under a bandage, which hadn't been there before he crossed blades with me. And he'd taken the worst I had and put me down to offer me this deal. This cat had seen shit. I don't know how, but I knew that somewhere under that uniform, he had ink like mine. And he seemed to get it. He was giving me the respect, not talking down to me, calling me a punk, threatening me...

He got it. I wasn't just a kid. I mean, I was -- I was young, and I was throwing my life down the drain, but like I said before, I didn't have a lot of options. He seemed to know that. Maybe it was in the old callouses on my hands and the desert sun burned into my skin and teasing at my hair. Maybe it was the fight in me, the way I took punches and handed them back. Maybe it was because I shot like an Ace before I could legally buy porn.

Maybe somewhere, once upon a time, he'd been a shit-kicker in an interrogation room and someone else wearing ink and fresh scars had offered him this kind of chance. Maybe he was paying it forward.

" _Ayudame_ ," he said so soft. "And maybe I can help you."

I believed him. I also heard the 'maybe' that he had the honesty to say.

I thought about it for about two heartbeats. 'Jesse McCree' wasn't a real person. He wouldn't have any priors, but he wouldn't have a social security card or an ID or anything else, either. We had developed a trick of traveling with fake IDs and leaving our real ones at home in case we got pinched, but that just meant that they knew the ID I had on me wasn't real. I had already given him my last name, and maybe he could trace me down, but...

I licked my lips, holding on to my pocket ace. "I want a fresh start." I looked up at him, meeting his eyes. Not a challenge, but so that he could see.

I was willing to bargain.

He nodded. "Fresh start, I can do," he said gently. He gently pressed the pictures forward. "But you gotta help me first, _caballero_. Which one is the _Jefe?_ "

There was a sniff of a laugh in my nose, and then a low chuckle at the back of my throat. I think there was even a tear down my cheek, but that might be my dramatic recollection. "I am." I let him see in my eyes I was honest. "Watch your footage, _señor_. I'm not just the best shot. Me an' Ashe..." I tapped a finger at the red-eyed, silver-haired girl. The fallen angel who had dragged my ass to hell. "We run the damn thing. She's one of them... one-percenter types." I let him hear my bitterness, see my unkind smile. "She snatched my ass off my family's farm, promising glory and riches. Then let me do the dirty work. And I'm fuckin' sick of it."

I watched his eyes stare. I watched his brow furrow, trying to figure out what part of that was a bluff, how much was true, how much was embellished...

...And he blinked, eyes wide, as he realized I was completely fucking serious.

I nodded. "...No one expects the two kids to be the ones runnin' the show," I said softly. "She's an heiress. Knows the right people. Me, I'm the charmin' one. I make nice, practically _whore_  myself out for her, just to keep this shit show goin'. And half the time, she just mucks it up, wantin' to play cowboys and indians. She wants to rule the god forsaken desert, and I want _out_."

He was reeling. I could see he was reeling. But he had a damn good poker face. He even leaned on an elbow, fingers on his mouth in an absent minded guarding gesture. "And the yakuza?"

I scoffed. "I walked into a casino in Los Angeles, drunk. Some crappy front in Little Tokyo. Started talking a big game, pulled out a handsome purse. Someone with money came over to talk business, like moths to a flame. We bounced them around a couple associates before we landed a deal. I got friends in Mexico, they handle the other half of our imports. We ride everything on charity bike rides from Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and Cali out to wherever else."

He considered that... "So... How many are in your gang?"

I leaned forward, my chains rattling across the table. I spread out the pictures -- Ashe. B.O.B. Rodriguez. Eagle Feather. Morales. Garcia... "There's five more," I told him. "But the rest of the guys, they're hers. These ones are mine." I looked up at him. "She makes us do the dirty work, while they sit in nice houses and assemble the guns, sell the product to white collar types, make phone calls, live like kings. She doesn't even think of me as her equal. I'm some pet dog of hers, and I'm sick of bein' kicked and starved."

That simmering rage again. But... He knew he had me going. That I wanted to talk, and that I was ready to sing. And he let me.

"I'm sick of it," I said again, firm. "If I had known she was gonna do this to me, I would have stayed on my damn ranch. But now I can't go back." Not now that I've tasted the road, the blood, the fight... The unparalleled delight in being the cowboy I could never be back at home. "So I want a fresh start. I'll give you her name, our safe houses, all of her known associates. You get them locked up. Get them properly booked, somewhere high enough that her contacts can't reach. But my boys, they're just trying to do right by their families. They need _help_. They wouldn't be doing this if they didn't have to." Except maybe Rodriguez. That man's a psycho. But I'm not gonna call him out like that. "...Hell. You can lock me up if you want to, if you agree to help them. Get them out of this life. We've missed three weddings and a _quinceañera_  while running this year, and I know it hurts them. I don't talk to my folks no more, so I don't matter. But I want them out."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth -- and honestly, I don't know where that last self-sacrificing bit came from -- I mean them. I mean them with every inch of my being. And for his part, he listens.

He slides me a sheet of paper, and a pen. "Make two columns," he said, but it's not an order. "Which ones are yours, which ones are hers. We will do what we can for them."

I worked my jaw, but the first thing I did was a long line down the center of the page -- I put McCree on one side, and Ashe on the other. I could practically hear her cursing me for a rat, and it just made me want to do it more. At the bottom of her list, I put her name - Elizabeth Ashe. And on the other side, I put mine.

My real name. Not Jesse.

I slid it over to him, and capped the pen. His eyes moved over the lists, and his eyes fastened on hers... And then on mine.

"...I have to check your record, Jesse. Before I can get that fresh start. You know that, right?"

"There's no record. She did a good job of getting any cops paid off. She has god damn marshals in her pocket. They're untouchable."

His eyes searched mine. " _Verdad?_ "

"Swear," I swore. I didn't swear it on my mother's grave, because that would be a lie.

He doesn't seem too surprised to hear that. That's how I know for damned sure that he's been in my seat before. I'm leaned back, trying to act cool in my socks and ripped clothes, arms crossed with chains and enjoying the cool air, but it's starting to give me goosebumps and the walls are creeping in a bit. I'm self aware enough to know that this is a thing that will never end. I'll be in and out of jail, in and out of fights, in and out of trouble...

...And I already really hate handcuffs.

His eyes hold mine... And look down at the folder. Or, perhaps, the pictures underneath the folder that were making me squirm. When he looks up at me again, I know he's already made a decision.

He rises. "Alright, _caballero_. I'll see what I can do for you. But for this... Perhaps I can get you a lot."

He isn't confident, but he looks determined, bracing himself for a fight, but with every intent to fight dirty to accomplish his goal. And if there was anyone in the world who I think could make the world bend to his whims, it was him.

His name was Gabriel Reyes. I traded an angel for an angel. Maybe we're all doomed to fall sometime.


	2. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to forget that for every employer looking to fill a position, there's an operative looking for a job. Hanzo investigates a potential gig, and the... Mm. Delicious characters who are proposing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter just happened, but Hanzo is thirsty, and I'm not the one to stop him. This was really heavy and angsty, so I figured I'd let you guys go with two parts. We'll see what happens tomorrow. Hope you're ready for some gay feels!

_Never did I think that I... Would be got in the way you got me... Love is not a choice._  ~ "Girls / Girls / Boys" by Panic! at the Disco

//

[You wanna run that by me again?]

[He killed. The competition.]

It's simple tech, and yet it still works. Especially when your target is one of those very old school types that prefers to avoid security breaches by being as low-tech as possible. Pain in the ass, because someone has to likewise be very old school to sit out here on the roof with a listening device, but to a certain extent, I don't mind. It's a nice night for it, cooling down from the muggy heat of the day. I also get a very nice view of the nudist pacing his hotel room with a radio.

[How many?]

[Five.]

Seven, actually. I caught one after she'd gotten the offer and declined -- caught her while she was sending out her e-mails, which is how I found out about the job. I have a very good hacker that owes me a life debt, and no amount of familial disgrace can override that honor-bound duty. I kick him a bonus, and he is happy to help another time.

[Jesus Christ...]

The nudist is American, the bulk of someone who is too active to really gain much weight, but with the soft ass and hips of someone who spends a lot of time sitting around. There's a bit of a beer gut, too. He's probably been on the run for a while.

[But I mean... He left a calling card.]

[What, and you want to _call_  him?!]

[Well... He clearly wants the job.]

That was rather the point. I have a phone sitting on the ledge beside me, on silent but ready to light up at a moment's notice, even as I have made myself comfortable with my device and headphones. The talent scout has the crisp accent of someone who is born British, but it's subtle, mellowed. An ex-pat, perhaps.

[Right. Let me just give a job to some psycho who just killed almost a half dozen professional _assassins_  because he left a card! Let him get caught! Report him! Why would you touch that?!]

[Well... If he's good enough to not only hunt down, but also kill so many pros, he's nothing to sneeze at. Think of it as an audition, Jess. I mean, with the reputation you have? Maybe he thinks you will be impressed by a show of force.]

If nothing else. Although I'm surprised to hear him offer me to the authorities. That's not a common response for outlaws. There's another string of curses and I can't help but smile, closing my eyes a bit as I enjoy that voice. It's a rich baritone, and the filthy language combined with the tasty American accent does things to me. The fact that I can see how well-endowed he is only adds to a rather self-indulgent fantasy that I have every intention of pursuing later. One of the perks of working alone.

[...Our deadline is closing in, Jess,] the other voice says gently. [We still need to find a new player, get them introduced to the team, give them the run down, give it a practise run... There's a lot of work to do and not a lot of time in which to do it. I say, if he wants the job, let him have it. If he wants us dead, he'll kill us. This is just the nature of the game. I mean, you wanted paranoid players. This isn't off brand for you.]

...Wanted paranoid players. Fascinating. Was it not about the money for him? It was a lot of money.

The American sighs. He stops, head lolling back, a hand grasping at his hair. Even naked... He has metal on one arm. A prosthetic, perhaps? The radio hangs at his hip as he seems to think... And I am thinking about how cute of an ass he has. Perhaps, if this goes well, I might tempt him out for a drink after. If he's into that kind of thing.

[...Jess?]

Another beat, and he lifts the walkie talkie to his lips. They're all in the same town, in order to be within range. Wasn't hard to find the Boss. Not with my skillset. [Monty, what if he's after my bounty?]

A raspy laugh, through the radio and device. [Jess, if you don't work with people who are after your bounty, you won't work. That's a fact of life. Make yourself more valuable alive. One of the ways to do that is to give him work with an easy payout, a smooth job, and everyone home for dinner after.]

Monty is one of those people I know from home. He's higher management, but prone to smooth talking a _oyabun_ to keep things moving, assuaging legitimate fears. I distrust him instantly.

The American sighs again. He slides those metal fingers through his hair... And tugs. It looks delicious... And grounding. I wonder how often he's had to make these kinds of decisions... And if he usually does it naked.

[Fine,] he says finally. He does not sound enthused. [Call him in. Tomorrow night, 2200.] Ooh. Military man. [I'll text you the address.]

[Absolutely, sir.]

He hesitates... And adds, [I want you to be there with me.]

This time Monty hesitates. [As you wish, sir.]

[I really do.] Aha... This is his own way of holding leverage. He is not about to walk in blind and alone. [You and me, be there an hour early.]

[Of course, sir.] He does a good job of hiding how uncomfortable he is, but I still hear it.

[Signin' off.] I hear the beep of the radio as the static cuts out. He taps the radio into his other hand, the plastic and metal making an unnatural sound. He looks down to turn it back on, but on a different channel, and sets it up on the dresser, within reach from the bed. I listen as he gets in the shower, muffled singing in the water (awww... That's endearing), and when he shuts it off, there's a sound like a damn dog shaking water off that catches me off guard and I nearly knock my phone off the ledge, I start laughing so hard. He settles down to watch a movie -- something in Spanish I can't exactly follow -- and doctors a few fingers of scotch. By the time the film is over, he's had two drinks and turns in. It's about two in the morning local time, and I decide that he probably doesn't know anyone is watching him, secure in his old fashioned-ness.

I retreat to my own shitty little motel room and entertain myself with a movie that is a little more explicit. I keep the sound off so that I can listen to the echo of his gorgeous voice in my ears.

//

"Hanzo... Sit with me."

I stop, cursing myself so silently. I have been trained in stealth, and yet my mother always seems to hear. I wonder sometimes if it is not her ears that know I am here. I lean into the room, the sliding doors and tatami mats of home that I took for granted at the time. Ghostly footfalls more noted by my weight shifting than a clumsy step. She is having tea, a cup already served and half-finished, a servant watching from a corner. She would have been prepared to welcome me, I have no doubt, which means my mother bid her to stay. Perhaps this will be short.

I move to her left, my back to the door, only because it is closest. Father would reprimand me for the weak position, but his grumpy orders were never quite so sincere as mother's. I murmur a greeting, full of respect, and she reaches for her cup, sipping from it as if I were not speaking. It is a formality that she never enjoyed. And yet, I knew that if I did not complete the ritual, my father would hear about it.

Even her handmaids are his spies.

"More tea, please," she says, but not to me. The servant bows, rises, and exits, closing the sliding door behind her. The purpose and timing is impossible to mistake.

"I heard troubling news, my son," she says, a quiet murmur, pouring fresh tea into the cup and presenting it to me without the proper decorum. "And I want to hear it from your lips." My eyes are the stormy grey of the tempest sea, but the ferocity in them comes from hers. She is like a tiger, hard topaz that pierces through skin and bones, and past the soul as well. "Do not dare lie to me. I will know your shame."

I bow before those eyes. I take the cup, to sip, not knowing what lie to prepare. Knowing not what else to do, I nod. "Of course, Haha-sama."

She watches me, and I sip, waiting for the blade to fall. But I cannot expect the question she would ask.

"...Do you know a man named Takagi Tenshi?"

I blink. "...The guard?"

"Hai. The guard." Her eyes flit up at the door -- perhaps she can see through walls? -- and then back to me. "I have heard rumors, and I must know the truth of it."

I frowned, unsure. He was presently guarding my brother's wing of the castle. I had seen him once or thrice on patrol when I went to investigate if Genji was home, or out carousing, but we had not spoken past formal greetings and the occasional report given. "What of him?"

"I have heard that he is of a certain... persuasion." Her eyes pierce me, daring me to lie so that she can devour. "It is said that he is entertaining your brother in the dark. Doing unspeakable things."

...Oh. I look down to my tea. "Hai. I have heard these rumors, too." I wouldn't have known he existed had I not heard the rumors. Wouldn't know his face had I not sought him out myself. The rumors seemed to be true -- the blush on his cheeks when I gave him a thorough inspection suggested that he was indeed of that persuasion. But Genji, I knew all too well, was straight as one of my arrows. "I assure you, they are not true, mother. Debaucherous as my brother is, he does not share his bed with men."

"Even still. He must be stopped."

I frowned, not understanding. "Stopped? But they aren't doing anything?"

"Even a rumor is damage enough, my child. Hanzo, one day you will _oyabun_ , and you will learn too well what kind of a wildfire gossip can be. A spark may be nothing, may be smothered, but some flames grow so wildly out of control, they can consume everything, even if they are baseless. There are wolves, and there are sheep. An _Okami_ might not care for the bleating of one lamb, but do not forget that a herd of cattle can trample even the strongest wolf. Do not let your arrogance get the better of you. Catastrophe will strike when it is least expected, that is to be sure. But when you can avoid a trouble, it is best to douse the fire yourself."

...Douse. I swallowed hard. "What... would you have me do?"

"Dispose of him," she answered, as cold as if she was referring to a burnt dish, a pot of oversteeped and bitter tea. "Do it quietly. And do it yourself." She reached for the tea I had barely touched, and took a drink herself, just as the door opened, the servant smiling at us with the vacant pleasantness of a porcelain doll. It was not difficult to hide my distress -- through the entire exchange, my posture and expression never changed. Maybe my mother saw the whirlwhind inside me, as I saw the ferocity in her, but our voices had never risen over a murmur. She did not crack a smile, but there was an added sweetness to her next words, a dollop of honey to ease the sting. "As a favor for your mother."

I bowed in deference to her. As if she had merely asked me to fetch a bag of rice on the way home from school today. "Of course, sama. I thank you for the lesson."

The servant poured the tea. I drank two cups. We sipped in silence. When I had finished, and the servant moved to pour a third, my mother raised a hand.

"Forgive me, Hanzo. How rude of me. You doubtless have schoolwork to finish." She took the cup for herself, the maid moving back to her corner, and she polished it off for me. "I shall see you at dinner."

I rose, bowed low for her, murmured my royalties. After I was in the hall and the door was behind me, and the house, and I was safely in another, up the stairs, down the hall, and in my own suite, I finally let out a breath, almost a sob, a hyperventilating that I hid between my knees as I let it rock me.

 _As a favor for your mother_.

This man, who had done nothing wrong, had not touched anyone, had merely been doing his job, would die just for being what he was.

Had my mother asked Genji to kill anyone on my behalf?

That night, I went to my brother's suite again, making sure he was not home. I waited in his room, listening for the guard. Sitting on his bed, noting the cadence and pace of each man as he went through the route... Until I heard him. Bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it.

"Takagi," I called, the clear, compassionless voice of the _oyabun_. His footsteps froze for a half a heart beat, until he answered, feet hurrying to the door. He was shocked to see me there.

"Shimada-sama--"

"Come in here," I ordered, interrupting him mid-bow and mid-royalty. "And close the door behind you." He looked up at me, confused, but obeyed. He took three hesitant steps towards me, sensing this as the trap that it is. "Sit." I look to the space on the bed beside me, and the bamboo creaked as he lowered himself beside me.

He gulped. "What can I do for you, sama?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

"There are rumors of you going about," I said just as soft. "Rumors that you do unseemly things in bed with other men."

His eyes widened, looking to the bed we are sitting on... And to me. "A-Are there?" he stuttered. I'm sure his palms were sweating.

"Mother wants me to kill you." I meet his eyes, watching his reaction. "Even though I know for certain that my brother is far too interested in women to entertain you, the mere rumor is enough that this fire must be... doused." I can't help but echo the order.

A shuddering breath. He reaches for the hat on his head, kneading it in his hands, staring down at it in his lap. "...People know?"

"Those sorts of things get around," I said, gentler.

He looked up at me suddenly, and I felt my mask slip. Felt my muscles tense and twist in a grimace, in pain. Showing emotions is normal for some people, but not for me. "The cruelty is not lost on me," I said, my voice thick. "I know for a fact that you are innocent. My brother is safe. But if you had been in my quarters... Well." I met his eyes, and I even felt the welling of tears. "I daresay Genji would have been told to do the same. We are taught to look after one another."

 

That was a lie. I cannot recall even once that Genji spilled blood for me, or on my behalf. It was mentioned many, many times among the elders at clan meetings. He liked his pub brawls now and again, but he was more of a lover than a fighter. In the epic drama that was our lives, I was certainly _giri_ while my brother had the privilege of being _ninjo_.

I offer Takagi a blade. "...She asked for quick and quiet. We can defy her a little, if you like. Or I can find another way to satiate her need. Unless you've a preference."

He stared at it... And at me. He definitely had tears. "Why... Why didn't you just snap my neck in the hall?" he asked, voice trembling. "I know you could have."

...It was a good question. And one I should have thought about before hand. It would haunt me for years, before I realized the answer. I shrugged, not knowing it yet. I knew that I liked boys who blushed and cursed when they were drunk, and the warmth of victory when I bested a beautiful, gleaming, panting warrior. But I thought that the reason the _geisha_ didn't hold my interest was because I hadn't found the right one, a woman to equal my male counterparts, and there was comfort in the knowledge. I was ready to trust that the family would find that girl for me, that perfect match. I never for once thought it was because women just didn't interest me. I wouldn't put those together into a puzzle that made sense until after I'd lost my throne and killed my brother for a similarly misguided reason. At the time I was ordered to kill Takagi Tenshi, I didn't have a reason. It was irrational, the way I shoved the blade at him, pushed him until he stumbled to his feet, and then pulled out my own. His was a standard guard's blade, which would not be unseemly for him to carry. I held something slimmer, sleeker, more dignified and harder to trace. I wanted him to die with honor, not be gutted like a pig -- not the way they wished me to murder him.

He took the proper posture to defend himself, a hand outstretched. "Please... Hanzo, please don't do this."

I remember something inside me screaming at my name on his lips in such a way. Screaming at the injustice. I had killed so many already, I didn't know why this one was making me fight back. I didn't understand why I didn't just kill him, throttle him, suffocate him under a pillow or drown him in the koi pond outside. I lunged at him, enough to turn his panic into something primal. He reached for the door, and I let him. He ran down the hall and I gave chase. When I caught him, I mangled him. I stabbed his throat out, beat his face in with my fists until everything was red -- my face, my yukata, the walls, the floor...

I was not quiet. It was not quick. It was not clean, and it was not soon forgotten. Guards heard our screaming, and they had to wrench me off of him, even though the damage was done. The carpets had to be completely redone for the entire hall, and the servants scrubbed at the walls for a week. My father spun it in a disgraceful way, branding Takagi a monster that I had lashed out upon for someone else's virtue, staining his name. Righteous retribution, he called it. But those who had spent even a little time with him, or me, virtueless monster I had become, started to cast doubt on my father's words, a wildfire of a different kind. And no one of that persuasion dared come near the Shimada castle again.

I was only nineteen at the time. Which is why it wasn't until I had been very drunk, in a shitty little pub in Sangju, that I realized the girl I was kissing had scruff, and it all clicked in my mind. I had wanted to defy my mother, and I had made a very big mess of it, but I suppose even then I had known somehow, buried deep inside. It had nothing to do with Genji at all, but a way of keeping me in check. Just another bar in the gilded cage that had been my life. And by forcing me to set the match to the kindling myself, they had ensured that no one would come near enough to me to help me realize it. Perhaps Genji had known, had wanted to free me of it long ago, but I did not listen.

_Why didn't you just...?_

We shared a sin, Takagi and I. And oh, the world will never cease to punish us for loving in that way that they call unseemly. But like hell will we go quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giri and ninjo translate to 'duty and emotion'. Most classical Japanese storytelling (and most of the modern stuff, even) centers around this balance, this conflict. It's inherent in Hanzo's entire backstory -- the conflict between listening to the elders (duty) or sparing his beloved little brother (emotion). It's the samurai who abandons his post for love. It's tossing that important quest item to save a friend. I think one of the best contemporary examples in Western pop culture I've seen recently is Jaime Lannister -- you are to honor your king, but what if the king is mad? You are to honor your father, but what if he is at war with the king? You are to obey the law and protect the people, but what if the lawmaker is bidding you to kill the innocent? Oathbreaker, Kingslayer -- he's caught in a shit spot, and even after he helped the coup that saved the kingdom, no good deed goes unpunished.
> 
> ...Don't ask me if she's trans or just a cross dresser. I don't know, and it really doesn't matter. Suffice it to say he realized that she was AMAB, and then he realized that said realization turned him on, and suddenly life made sense. As a pan trans dude with a huge male lean, I will tell you that those things really don't matter. But maybe I'm just a lot more open-minded and accepting than most people. Which I'm totes okay with.


	3. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree meets up with this... prospect to see if he's good enough to join. And gets way more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no flashback sequence in this one, just because it's been SO LONG since I've updated, and I just want to give you guys a little something to let you know I'm not dead! I gotta get back to my fanfic, it's always so rewarding when I get comments of "Who hurt you?" and the incomprehensible squealing...
> 
> "By Request" has been in my head a lot too, so that's something to look forward to.
> 
> AS ALWAYS, my casual Japanese is there for flavor. Don't take it too seriously. I'm not exactly getting this shit translated.

_"I swear I saw a dragon! A green and seething, fire-breathing monster is in sight! With eyes of red and a lion's head and wings as dark as night! He has a jaw of gleaming teeth, he's fifty feet in height! It's true, it's true! Oh what are we to do?!"_  - "I Swear I Saw A Dragon" from  _Pete's Dragon_

xxx

The rendezvous point was a hotel a block or so away from me. That gave me time to have a pre-meet up smoke as I marched over there, for which I was eternally grateful. I showed up about ten minutes before Monty did, and we found each other at the bar, me sipping my usual whiskey and coke. He ordered a beer, settling beside me.

"You know what we're looking for?" I asked him, trying to keep the growl out of my voice. The drink helped.

"Asian fellow. Calls himself Ryuu."

I grunted. I'd heard that name before. "Means Dragon," I told him, taking a sip. "He's Japanese. Or else he's pretending to be."

He blinks at me, but chooses not to ask. "You know of him." It's not a question.

"Heard of him from a few places." It's a Shimada name. All of them are Ryuu. "What's his price?"

"He didn't give me one. Wants to discuss it with the Boss. That's you." He takes a swig, I grunt.

Behind the bar is a mirror. A lot of the visual is cluttered with bottles of spirits, but you can get a decent scope of the place without making it too obvious you're looking. I see someone in a corner of the bar, fit Asian-type of some variety with his own drink in front of him, and he's watching us.

Shamelessly.

My eyes narrow. "You think that's him?" I murmur. Monty looks up in the mirror. "My 8:30."

His gaze goes there, and he puts on a conspicuously casual expression. "Could be."

"Well, he's hella early." I down the last of my drink and leave it at the bar, and head that way. Monty is startled, but follows after, bringing his cup with him.

First impression:  _Damn_  he's pretty. Not the kind of round-faced boy band pretty that's real popular with the Koreans, but the kind of old, distinguished, cheekbones-you-could-cut-yourself-on kind of pretty. He's got that regalness to him that makes you think of war era kings and generals and impatient orders in the dark. The kind of guy whose reputation will precede him, with a face that lives up to the hype.

Second impression: He looks hella drunk. There is a haziness to his eyes that suggests this is not his first or even third drink of the day, and I suppose his shamelessness seems less imposing if its a lack of sobriety that makes him so bold. And yet, his posture is still, his hands visible, and the eyes that track me are a marksman following a target. But he looks drunk. I wonder if he's a functional alcoholic or a good poker player. Or both.

" _Konnichiwa_ ," I greet. His expression doesn't change, and he does not exactly respond. "I was plannin' on meeting someone here. Are you waiting on us?"

His eyes... Glitter a moment. "Not waiting, no. It is still early."

Third impression: Holy fuck does he have a voice to match. A low kind of purr, the easy confidence of someone who is quite used to getting what he wants, and therefore hasn't learned to be charming or polite. In fact, he sounds like a douchebag, a bit of a pretentious cockiness to it, as if he's mocking me out of habit.

Kills nearly half a dozen people for a job interview? Sounds about right.

"Excellent." I slide into the booth, Monty reluctantly capping in beside me. I keep both hands very visible and lace my fingers together. The eyes follow my movements before darting back up to my face. I give him my least threatening smile. "Name's McCree. Heard you are looking for employment."

Those eyes flit to Monty and back to me. He picks up his posture, the languishing drunk straightening into something more proper. "Heard you have need for another set of watchful eyes. My eyes are watching nothing at the moment."

Even though Monty told me that his kills had spanned over three countries. In less than a week. Guy gets around. Quick. "Why?"

His eyes dance, like he is trying to make it look like he is thinking, a too-casual shrug. "Because I am bored?" His eyes meet mine again, and I make it clear I'm not playing. He is going for the 'I just happened to be in the area' schtick, and I don't ever buy that. He doesn't seem dissuaded. "You have a reputation that precedes you. Clean work, quick payout, and you have no patience for fools." Ooh, and now he's going to try and butter me up. "I like quick and clean. I do not like fools."

I leaned in, voice low. "You make it a habit to kill the competition?"

His eyes glitter, but with something else. Like the cat who had one of his feathers pointed out. "Not a habit, no. When I feel like an impression needs to be made, yes. But I do not consider you competition. If that helps."

...I'm trying to decide if that's a rib or not. Perhaps I'm coming off a little strong, but I don't like this cat and how easy he thinks he's going to get this, and I intend on making him work for it. "What's your specialty?"

"Sniper," he answers easily. "I can shoot anything, but my weapon of choice is bow and arrow. Old fashioned, but... Quiet."

"Easy to track."

"A calling card."

Calling-- I look to Monty, who is staring at this cat with a pale face. He looks to me and nods.

God, Monty. You could have said something. Why so fucking vague?

I scratch at my beard, considering it. Considering giving Monty a wallop, too. "...You do heists before?"

"I usually keep my thieving to small things," he answered. I watch his gaze flit to Monty, who is keeping quiet. He probably enjoys the way he's clutching his beer and staring.

"Valuable artifacts, personal items, planting warnings of a kind. Bigger operations like this are not my forte, but I've been the eye in the sky for a number of things. Assassinations, protection details, cover fire. It is not new to me."

...He just came right out and said it. "Uh huh."

"And I know who you are, if that helps," he added, leaning forward with that delicious purr that is sliding right down that line of alluring and dangerous that always gets me in trouble. "Blackwatch was a while ago, was it not?"

I see Monty's eyes dart at me, but I hold my ground. I hold his gaze. His eyes are the blue of stormy seas, and I almost think I can see lightning if the angle was right. "Sure was. Long enough for a man to get desperate. Not long enough for his reputation to be forgotten."

"No... There are places where that name will never be forgotten."

I hope this isn't personal. We took down the Shimada Clan a loooong time ago. Helped that we had their prince as one of our own, ratting them out.

Nearly cost him his life.

Monty takes a swig of his beer and I crick my neck to one side. "I'm gonna wanna see some ink there, sugar," I said, moving this along. Any gangster or merc worth his salt could carry his resume on his skin. It was really hard to bluff an old tattoo.

"Of course..." He seemed to be waiting for it. The jacket slides off his shoulders, and the black shirt underneath has the sleeves cut off. A beautiful splash of blue and gold rides down his left sleeve, and I stare at it a long moment, recognizing it. The circle of double dragons on his right shoulder is almost redundant, even as he turns it to us.

Anyone who didn't know would see the Clan symbol and be satisfied that they had a 100% certified ninja. But that inkwork, that detailing, the way the blue shimmered with silver, and the gold danced in even this shitty lighting...

I'd known another with that kind of detail. His had been green, and had been on his back. This wasn't just a Shimada Clan member. This was an actual Shimada.

I blinked up at him, a fresh kind of fear in my mind. A Shimada take out half a dozen competitors? Ha. They could wipe out a whole damn village in two hours. They were not mere mercenaries, but trained assassins, light as a feather and danced on the wind. I'd watched one scale entire buildings by  _foot_  and perch like a fucking gargoyle on a street lamp like he wasn't even there. These cats where inhuman.

And this was one of the Family. I suddenly wished I knew where Genji was to give me a list of who all in his family's crew were still at large. We did a good job of slaughtering a whole fuck ton of them, but there's always a few rats who could escape a sinking ship. And dragons can fly. Taking out the underlings was a matter of spray. The actual namesakes were damn near impossible to slay.

I'm pulled out of it when that sleeve is going back on, and there's that smug, canary-fed smile to his lips that I know damned well is no act. This guy is legit. The real thing. The kind of guy who haunts your nightmares, and then you just don't wake up one night.

"Satisfied?" he purred.

I swallow hard. He knows now that I know who he is. Or at least have a respect for what that ink represents. A lost lord for a fallen kingdom is still royalty, even if his land is taken and the road is his new domain. Some things are just bred into you, and won't ever disappear. "Cut is 20% each."

"I want 25."

I work my jaw... Damn it. He could have asked more than that. He knows I know. Damn it. "Fine. 25. But you gotta listen to orders, or this isn't going to work."

He rolls his eyes -- very subtly, but I caught it -- and nods. "Of course."

I reach to my bag, and his eyes dart to the motion, until I pull out a radio and slide it over to him. "You know how to work this thing?"

He pursed his lips. " _Hai_. I do."

"Good. Channel 4. And it's secured with an encryption, don't fuck it up." His eyes narrow at me -- at the curse? -- but he doesn't answer back. "Rendezvous at 0400 local. Have it on, be on time." I held out a hand. "Pleasure meetin' you,  _Ryuu-sama_." I don't sound like I'm very pleased. But it's all I can do not to scream and run the other way, or else sock him on principle until his face is a bloody mess of bones and brains. I think I was as even as could be expected given the circumstances.

"And you,  _Makuri-san_." His hand meets mine with a firm shake, not an overly complicated show of dominance, but rather the apathetic 'I don't have to impress' you type thing when he's not interested enough in the conversation to try.

Maybe I'm paranoid and over thinking things. But I doubt it.

Monty takes the opportunity to skedaddle, and I rise, pulling out a large bill and tossing it to the table. "Enjoy your drink, sir." I replace my hat and stride out of the place, doing my best to hold in the anger and need to  _destroy_  that is still ingrained in me, because I need this job, and I need him for it, and I can't afford to carry on that crusade right now.

...Although I coulda sworn as I left that he was staring at my ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCree is going to give Hanzo the benefit of the doubt -- he knows this is a Shimada, but he doesn't know /which/ Shimada. He wants to punch the guy on principle, but also, he could be a distant cousin or something. He has no reason to know that this is HANZO. Doesn't ease his trigger finger much, but those days were a long time ago, and that's a dead crusade he doesn't particularly want to resurrect just because. Especially not when a job is on the line.


End file.
